Eight Bells
by Molinita
Summary: House cannot let go after Wilson died. Wilson comes back as a ghost, but has to leave at 1am. I still cannot decide on the genre. It's romance, drama, angst, supernatural and hurt comfort. But most of all it's a HouseWilson love story
1. Chapter 1

**Eight Bells: Chapter One**

**Disclaimer:** An other fic, same disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me, they're all David Shore's and Fox's.

**A/N:** The strikes of ship's bell clocks do not accord to the number of the hour. Instead, there are eight bells, one for each half-hour of a four-hour watch. At midnight the clock strikes eight times.  
_The term "Eight bells" can also be a way of saying that a sailor's watch is over, for instance, in his or her obituary. It's a nautical euphemism for "finished". [Wikipedia_

* * *

**T**he warm autumn sun cast a golden light upon the trees and the colored leaves. The white of the tombstones glistened. It was a rather new part of the cemetery and everything looked neat, even welcoming. The white gravel paths, the low cut grass, the wildflowers under the trees and the benches gave the place the appearance of a park rather than a cemetery. A place for the living, not for the dead. 

The sunlight was reflected in a small golden cross on a tombstone and fell on Gregory House's face. He did not blink, he did not move. Throughout the service he had stood rigid like one of the tombstones, ignoring the pain in his leg. It was easy now, because his whole body and mind were filled with a dull pain.ouseHou

„Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Someone nudged House, urging him forward a little. It was time to throw in some dust. He made a step forward, his right leg buckling a little under his weight.

_This was not right_. He couldn't throw dirt on the polished coffin, didn't want to lock him in. He might want to get back out.

"House," Cuddy whispered behind him and put a hand on his arm. Even though the touch was very light, he could feel the cold of her shaking hand. He did not need to turn around to know that she was crying.

Reluctantly he took the shovel and stared down into the grave. _Dust to dust_. No! There was no way he was gone, he was _not_ dust.  
With a clatter the shovel fell on the ground. House turned around and hobbled away, leaving the the mourners around Wilson's grave behind.

-----

**H**is apartment was empty, just as empty as his life. And that hollow feeling that had washed over him some days ago would not subside.

House knew his friend was gone, but still couldn't believe it. During the wake Wilson had looked battered, but his bruises had been mercifully conceiled by the undertaker. His young boyish face had lain peacefully between the silken lining of the coffin as though he had been asleep. Family and friends had shuffled past him, the room filled with a low murmur and occasional sobs.

Wilson's hands had lain on his stomach and House had felt the urge to touch his wrist to make sure there still was a pulse, that there still was life. He had leaned on his cane a little more and had bend slightly over, his fingers twitching, ready to reach out, when someone had beaten him to it. A pale hand had taken Wilson's, arranged a white lily underneath and patted it softly. House had looked up into the blood shot eyes of Wilson's mother. Even to his own surprise, he had been angry at her for breaking the illusion.  
More people had been waiting to see Wilson and House finally moved on.

**It** had been the last time he had seen his best friend, draped in silk, sleeping in a coffin. House needed time to let go. He had never been good at that and letting go his only friend was the hardest thing.

-----

Everything had happened so fast. There had been a call at the PPTH: Dr. James Wilson had been in a car accident, peril injuries. He had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. House had never felt this helpless. There had been no illness to cure, no time to help and definitely no time to say goodbye.

**T**he hours after he had left the funeral past slowly and House went up and down in his apartment. And even though it might have looked to an observer as if he was brooding, his mind was blank except for some blurred visions of Wilson.

Finally the pain in his thigh became unbearable and he let himself fall into the cushions of his sofa. He took two pills, one for the pain in his leg, one for the pain in his chest. The blanket that still lay on the arm-rest smelled like Wilson and House buried his face into it, lying there motionless for a few hours.

**I**t was almost dark when House got up again. His face still wore the impressions of the blanket, his eyes red from tiredness. The street outside was deserted and he thought it save enough to go outside.

He had to see Wilson.

-----

**T**he drone of his motorbike and the fresh air soothed him. House took some empty streets along the outskirts and ended up in front of Wilson's hotel. The place looked uninviting with it's bleak grey walls. And the dark windows looked like hollow eyes, that stared down at House. He quickly put in the gear again and drove off.

**T**here were only a few street lights on the path that lead up to the cemetery. House tried to hold his heavy bike steady on the loose gravel. Even the caretaker's hut was dark as House parked his bike in front of it and opened the large iron gate. Everything was pitch black there, only a few candles were little light spots in the darkness, illuminating only their own graves.

House did not need any light to get to the grave he was looking for. He had always known how to find Wilson, this had not changed.

Suddenly House stopped. There was a slight smell of fresh soil and flowers. He reached out a hand and his fingers brushed over a polished stone. He swallowed hard as his fingers ran over the tombstone, feeling for the engraved name.  
_Dr. James Evan Wilson_. His right forefinger followed the writing, his left hand rested on the top of the stone like it would have rested on Wilson's shoulder.

_Come back_, he whispered silently. He wanted to say it out loud, wanted Wilson to hear it, but only a low gurgling sound left his mouth. _Please, come back._

A single tear rolled down his cheek and House stubbornly wiped it away with his sleeve as he turned around to leave the place. He could not say goodbye. Not yet.

-----

**B**ack in his apartment he took his guitar off the wall, the old one, the one he got in eighth grade. He had been lying to himself when he thought he could overcome his dislike of changes. The new guitar could never take the place of his old one, that lay smooth and comforting in his hands. House put his fingers on the strings, feeling the cold metal on his fingertips, but did not play. The tune of a slow, sad song played in his head alone and he started to hum along with his eyes closed.

**T**he clock on the wall clicked softly and House looked up. Midnight.  
Wilson had given him the ship's bell clock for christmas last year, a more or less subtle hint that he usually was late for work in the morning. It was suppose to strike eight times at midnight, but except for the clicking sound nothing happened. House had refused to ever wind up the bell.

He stopped humming and stared at the clock, remembering the day Wilson had given it to him.

---

"**I**t isn't very pretty," Wilson had said, handing him the brass clock, "but it'll call you for your 'watch'."

"What am I supposed to watch?" House had eyed the clock suspiciously as it began to strike.

"Your back," Wilson had whispered quickly as Cuddy came bursting into House's office.

---

House smiled a little as he remembered the scene. Cuddy had been furious about something and he and Wilson had kept on grinning.

"**W**e've been a good team, Wilson," he said softly.

A low snort came from the other side of the room.

"Only if you didn't throw a tantrum about one thing or the other."

"Huh?" House looked around to where he heard Wilson's voice. "Wilson?" he asked into the silence.

"House."

First it was only a kind of reflection, then House saw Wilson's face appear. It became more and more solid and his body followed. The transparency was still there but he looked just like Wilson. House gaped at him.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Wilson chuckled.

"Well, I -," House stared at him. "You _are_ a ghost, aren't you?"

"I guess so." Wilson looked down his body as if seeing it for the first time.

Out of words for this appearance, House kept gaping and staring. He could not believe that Wilson was here with him, talking to him. This was impossible. He pinched his arm very hard and looked at the bruised skin that turned red. Reassured that it had hurt and that he was not asleep, he turned around to Wilson again.

He was still there, looking at him expectantly.

"**W**hat now?" Wilson started to walk up and down the room, examining the bookshelves and furniture as though checking if anything had changed.

"What now?" House repeated bluntly. "You cannot just appear in my apartment and ask 'what now'!"

"Well, you asked me to come back. You know at the," Wilson paused. "At the cemetery."

"And you came back?"

Wilson opened his arms to say '_here I am'_.

"It's easy as that?" The frown on House's forehead told Wilson that he was thinking frantically.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Easy as that. I've always come running when you called. I scolded myself for it everytime though."

"You're my friend," House explained.

"_You_ haven't always been there for me."

Wilson's words hurt. _Now_ they hurt, now that he was gone. But he wasn't gone! House got up from the piano stool and went over to Wilson.

"I opened the door when you left Julie. You lived here for some weeks."

"You wanted to kick me out right away the next morning," Wilson grinned, obviously not bearing a grudge against House.

"I -, well, I wasn't used to someone living here with me."

**W**ilson took a step back as House came over and stopped only inches away from him. House cocked his head, examining the half transparent Wilson.

"Can I touch you?" he asked finally.

Wilson snorted. "That's just the weirdest thing you've ever asked me."

House smirked uneasily and lifted his hand to touch Wilson's arm. His fingertips brushed over the smooth fabric of Wilson's dress shirt and then his cheek.

"I _can_ touch you," House noted in bewilderment. He drove his hand over Wilson's arm again, this time a little firmer. His hand sank into the arm and House pulled his hand away, his face turning pale.

"No punching and no shoving around, hm." Wilson grinned at the horrified expression on House's face.

"Did that hurt?" House now held one hand behind Wilson's back and watched it right through his body.

"Uhm, no, but I would still prefer if you'll keep your hands out of my body."

"Now that is the weirdest thing _you've_ ever told me!" House retorted and smirked.

Wilson shook his head in amusement. "You haven't changed."

"It's been only a week." _But it felt like a month_, House thought. He had missed Wilson sorely.

They both stood there grinning at eachother for a moment.

"**W**anna watch a movie?" House finally asked, still confused about this unreal situation.

Wilson shook his head. "Sorry, I don't have that much time."

"You're gonna leave again?" House grabbed Wilson's arm and his hand went right through him. He did not want him to go.

"I have to. Witching hour. I have to leave at one o'clock," he shrugged his shoulders apologetically, his sad brown eyes looked House.

**T**he bell clock clicked and Wilson turned his head.

"You haven't wound up the bell, " he said reproachfully.

House ignored the remark. Only half an hour left, before Wilson would leave him again. Half an hour to say goodbye. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing would come out.

"We never had to say goodbye before," House looked down at his hands. "None of us ever went away."

Wilson watched him. "There's a first time for everything, I guess."

"I don't like changes." He knew this confession wouldn't surprise him, Wilson had always seen through him. House's blue eyes were fixed on Wilson now, pleading for him to understand those things he couldn't say.

"Send the guitar back then," Wilson answered, but nodded to show that he had understood.

"The old one's still good." House picked up his guitar again and pulled the strap over his head. He started to play a few notes just to see if it was still tuned, then stopped.

"Go on," Wilson demaded, leaning against the piano. He closed his eyes as House started to play a tune.

His eyes closed lightly, completely absorbed in the music, House plucked at the chords. Slowly the classical melody changed into Carole King's _You've got a friend_. He looked up to Wilson's smiling face.

"You won't get all soft and drippy now, will you?" Wilson's laugh lines around the eyes showed and House automatically skipped to a lighter song.

"Nah, already told you I dislike changes," smiled House.

**H**e glanced at the clock on the wall. Only a few minutes left until Wilson would be gone again. His presence felt good and the thought of losing him again frightened House. He stopped playing and grabbed the guitar strap looking for hold.

"Just a few more minutes," House said softly.

"You could slip in another song." Wilson was still in a good mood and House wasn't sure, if he was just trying to cheer House up or if he did not care at all that they would not see eachother again. But to imagine that Wilson did not care, just didn't work. Wilson _always_ cared.

**H**ouse turned to the clock again. One more minute. And there was something he had to tell Wilson.

"I -," he started, then stopped again. Wilson smiled at him encouragingly , but House could not look him in the eyes. Instead he let them drop to his fingers that were now twiddling with the guitar strap.

"You know I've always loved you," House finally said and lifted his head again to see Wilson.

A low click from the clock announced that the hour had passed, Wilson was gone.

* * *

Please review. Your reviews really make my day :) 


	2. Chapter 2

**Eight Bells: Chapter Two**

_**A/N:** Somehow it's always like that. I start a rather short fic and it just gets longer and longer. Chapter Two was supposed to be the last chapter, but I will add at least one more.  
The fic wasn't supposed to be /that/ sad, but I hope you'll like it and please review. _

* * *

**H**ouse had just been asleep for a few hours when the piercing sound of the telephone ringing woke him up again. Gruntingly he pulled his pillow over his head to shut out the sound. He had been dreaming and the pictures faded so fast that he had already forgotten what his dream was about. 

When the ringing did not stop, he reached out to his nightstand and grabbed the phone without opening his eyes. He pushed the small button to take the call, but did not speak.

"House?" After a long pause he heard Cuddy's concerned voice. Groaning unwillngly he opened his eyes and blinked into the sunlight that fell through his window.

"House, are you alright?" Cuddy's voice sounded tired and was still a little shaky from crying all night.

"I was. Until you called."

House heard Cuddy catch her breath. He knew he was a little harsh, but he did not care.

"We were worried about you when you left yesterday," she tried to keep the hurt out of her voice, but still sounded a little colder than before.

"I know you miss Wilson," she went on, when House stayed silent. "It was particularly hard for you -"

"I'm fine!" House cut her short. He felt the urge to hang up, but was sure she would call again or even worse, knock on his door.

"We have some good psychiatrists here at the PPTH," Cuddy said cautiously. She knew this wasn't a topic that was easily discussed with House.

"It usually was Wilson who talked to you and …," her voice broke and House heard a series of sobs.

He did not want to hear Cuddy cry, he did not want to talk _about_ Wilson - not with her and for sure not with any shrink -, what he wanted was to talk _with_ Wilson.

"Yea, maybe you should go and talk to one of the shrinks. I still need some sleep." House glanced at the radio clock and sighed. It was almost noon.

He waited silently until Cuddy sighed exasperatedly and gave up on her plan to help House. For now.

"See you on Monday then," she said quietly and hang up without waiting for House's reply. He had not intended to reply anyway and was relieved to hear the clicking that ended the call.

-----

**H**ouse pulled the blanket up to his chin and pressed his face into his pillow. He wanted to get back to sleep, to a dreamland that kept him away from reality, but sleep didn't come. Instead his thoughts wandered back to the night before. He still wasn't sure if it had been real, it had seemed real though. He had been able to touch Wilson and to talk to him.

House stretched out a hand to the empty side of his bed. Wilson had never slept there beside him, but sometimes, when sleep just had not come, he tried to imagine what it would be like if Wilson was there with him. He had imagined what he would have looked like, had tried to summon his smell. And somehow in his mind that side of the bed was closely linked with Wilson.

The empty side of the bed felt cold and no matter how hard House tried to imagine Wilson's warm body, the sheets stayed vacant.

**A**fter a while House had to accept that his futile attempts to go back to sleep were not working. He sat up and cast the bed a hostile stare. It had always stayed empty. House had always told himself that it was no use to talk to Wilson. Things would happen when the time was right. But was the time right for Wilson to go now?

A heavy weight lay on his chest and House took a deep breath to get some air into his lungs. The day had just started and he already felt tired.

-----

**O**n the early Sunday afternoon, the cemetary looked even more like a park than at the funeral the day before. House had to zigzag his way through the graveyard to avoid all the people who came to visit the graves of their loved ones who passed away.

**T**he emptiness and despair had returned after Cuddy's call in the morning. The moment he had hobbled past the couch on his way to the kitchen, the sureness that Wilson was gone for good had swamped him. He had stood there motionless with his hand on the blanket for a while and then had decided to drive to the cemetery again.

**T**he fresh grave was hardly visible under the heaps of flowers that friends and family members had left there. It still choked House to think that Wilson was buried under the flowers and the heavy soil, locked in a coffin. Didn't people usually bury things they wanted to forget about? _Bury the hatchet, bury an argument…  
_But he did not want Wilson to be buried to be forgotten.

"It's just the bodys," a low voice said. House looked up to see an old lady standing in front of him. He hadn't been aware that he had thought aloud.

"The soul cannot be buried. It remains with the ones who loved." She turned around and left. House could still hear her murmuring: "Just the bodys."

_I want his body back, too!_ House wanted to shout after her, but lacked the strength. What good was it to have some imaginary soul with him. He couldn't see it, argue with it, laugh with it. And he would never be able to touch it.

The thing House regretted most, was that he had never told Wilson what he felt for him, had never held him close or kissed him. Regret was new to House and it hit him hard. He felt beaten, having to cope with so many feelings at once: Loss, regret and the horrible guilt of his miserable life going on while Wilson's had ended so early.

-----

**H**ouse stayed at the grave until it was getting dark. He watched families come to lay down flowers on graves and some lonely looking people who cried at the graves of their lost lovers.  
He did not cry. The cold he felt despite the warm sun clamped his heart and it took him a huge effort to remember to breath in and out to make it through the day.

**P**eople were standing at the graves, whispering prayers – prayers to a God that had ripped their world apart and left them in pain – and others were talking to their lost ones, with eyes that pleadingly rested on the grave, hoping their words were heard.

House did not pray. He did not talk to Wilson, either. Again, he felt as if he had to yell to make his friend hear him, sleeping in his coffin, unaware of House sitting up here and missing him.  
He had to suppress the urge to dig and free Wilson from his subterranean prison, imagined Wilson's thankful eyes, when he would finally be back in the sunlight again.

**T**he golden writing on the stone stopped glistening when the sun slowly set behind the trees. With a sigh House lifted his head that had rested on the tombstone, while he was sprawling next to the grave. His legs were numb from sitting on the ground for hours. The stabbing pain in his right thigh was all he felt. He ignored it and pushed himself up, one hand on his cane the other one on the stone.

_Thanks_, House thought and patted the stone. Wilson was the only one who would ever be allowed to help him up.

Before turning around to leave, he read the ingraved name one more time. _Dr. James Evan … _

"Wilson," House whispered, speaking out the name he had always called his friend. With his head held low, he slowly made his way back to his motorbike to drive home.

-----

**B**ack in his apartment, House did not know what to do. Drinking beer had seemed alright as long as he knew Wilson would be there to drink with him soon. Watching a movie had been fun when he knew he could make stupid comments about it with Wilson later on.

Playing the piano was the only thing that seemed to be in order when he was feeling lonely. With a glass of whiskey and a bottle of Vicodin, he sat down. His fingers lay on the keys, but refused to play. He knew a lot of tunes, tunes about loss and despair, but there was no song he could think off that could express this fathomless sadness and loneliness he felt right now.

**T**he bell clock clicked in a vain attempt to strike seven bells. House got up and touched the cool brass. His fingers were shaking when he turned the key once. A single, weak 'ping' came from the clockwork, then the sound died again. House turned the key a few more times and listened to the loud ticking of the clock. His heart beat along with every tick in unity and for the first time in days he was aware that he had a heartbeat at all. Just like the small wheels in the clockwork that pushed the hands forward, his heart pumped the blood through his veins, keeping his organs alive. _Why?_

**H**e took the clock with him and set it against the music stand on his piano. The ticking felt oddly compfortable and House started to hit the piano keys simultaneously: a gigantic clock that indicated the passing time. Useless time, because it couldn't be shared.

-----

**H**ouse was so lost in the rhythm that he jumped when the clock started to strike eight bells. The bells resounded in the silent room, leaving a ringing in House's ear even after the last sound had ebbed away. His heart, suddenly so much faster than the clocks ticking, tried to find his own beat again.  
_Twenty-three hours since he had seen him. _  
House looked around to the spot where Wilson had appeared the night before.

"I'm over here."

House spun around again and there he was, leaning against the piano and smiling at House's puzzled face.

"Wilson," he managed to say and then fell silent again. Like the night before, his friend was half transparent, half solid.

"**Y**ou wore the same ugly tie yesterday." House glared at him, not really knowing what to say. After the grief he felt all day, he was relieved to see Wilson again.

"Oh sorry. Please forgive me for not choosing the clothes I died in to your liking," Wilson snapped and for a split second House was afraid he would leave again right away.

"You can stay an hour, right?" he had to make sure.

"I can," Wilson confirmed. "But I don't have to." _… if you don't behave_. The last part of the sentence was left unspoken, but hung in the air anyway.

House nodded.

"I didn't asked you to come back this time." He desperately hoped his words came out as a question, not as an accusation.

"You did." Wilson pointed to the bell clock. "Eight bells. You wound it up." He smiled.

House stared at the clock.

"I didn't know you _could_ come back."

"I can. Everytime you call me."

"Then you never have to leave?"

"I always have to leave. " Wilson looked sad. "At two bells it's over."

House made a gesture as if to wipe all concern away.

"But you can be with me for an hour every night?" he asked hopefully.

"As long as you don't forget to call me," Wilson nodded.

A heavy weight was lifted off House's chest. He had not lost Wilson completely. All the things that were unsaid could still be said one day. Suddenly he remembered something.

"Have you heard what I said yesterday while you were leaving?" House asked uneasily.

Wilson looked at him with big innocent eyes.

"I don't know. What did you say?" He smiled slyly as he watched House fumbling for words, but kept his face straight, when House looked up to face him.

"Nothing," House said softly, not able to get them out again.

-----

"**W**ant a beer?" he asked suddenly to overcome the awkward silence and was already on his way to the kitchen.

"House." Wilson stared after him. "House!"

"Hm?" House stopped mid-step.

Wilson pointed to his half-transparent body. "I can't."

"Why?" House ignored his gesture. "Still have to drive?"

Wilson stopped dead. His eyes showed how much he was hurt.

"I wasn't drunk when I had the accident," he explained in a toneless voice.

House nodded curtly and went to the kitchen. His anger that had come up so suddenly, was gone again. _Why couldn't be things like they used to be?_

**W**hen House returned to the living room, the scene looked familiar. Wilson sat on the couch, his feet rested on the small table. He examined his hands, holding them close to his face, seemingly fascinated of the transparency.

"I'm sorry," House whispered when Wilson refused to look up.

"There was a girl." He lay his hands on his knees and kept looking at his pants through them. "She was about five years old and she suddenly stood in the middle of the street."

The sadness in Wilson's voice made House cringe. He had heard the story from the police, but listening to Wilson telling it, made it even worse.

"It wasn't your fault." House still stood next to the table, waiting for Wilson to lift his feet and let him pass.

"I was too fast."

"She shouldn't have been there." The anger was back. "Had you just ran her over, you'd still be able to drink beer."

Wilson looked up to him, shocked first, then sad again. He knew House for too long to expect anything else. House had lost something and that was all that mattered to him.

"Will you let me pass?"

"Just walk right through," Wilson did not feel like moving. He leaned his head back against the cushions.

"No."

Wilson looked up to him.

"I will not walk right through you. I will not treat you as if you weren't there."

"House, I'm a ghost." He took his feet down anyway and let House pass between the couch and the table.

"I won't," House said again, letting himself fall on the couch next to Wilson. "I've done that often enough," he added softly.

The tv wasn't on, but both looked at the screen as they had alwas done, yearning for a piece of normality.

-----

"**W**hat was it you wanted to tell me yesterday?" Wilson asked as the hands of the clock made their way towards 1 am.

House shook his head slightly, but turned to face Wilson when he felt his eyes on him. He loved these brown eyes, how they read him and how they spoke to him. There were always books to read in Wilson's eyes. Sometimes a story, more often an endless lecture. House loved them still.

"I …," House looked down at Wilson's hands He saw the blue fabric of his pants under them and even the brown cushion of his sofa, reminding him that his best friend, who was still so close to him now – was dead. "I miss you," he whispered, swallowing hard to get rid of the big lump in his throat.

Wilson lifted a hand to House's face, but let it fall back before it touched his stubbly cheek.

House wanted him to say something terribly hokey like 'I'll be always there for you" or 'You'll never be alone'. Something to convince him, that Wilson was not gone, that there was no reason to miss him. He wanted to hear it and bash him for that, but still savouring it.

"That's okay," Wilson answered and House closed his eyes to shut out the pain of missing him.

The bell clock rang twice. Two bells. Wilson's hour was over. And sure enough, when House opened his eyes, his friend was no longer there.

"See you tomorrow," he said into the silence and closed his eyes again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Eight Bells: Chapter Three**

_A/N: This fic just keeps getting longer, but as long as someone reads it, I'll keep on writing, because it's really fun to write. :)_

* * *

**T**he bell clock welcomed House with one bell when he came home from the hospital. Three and a half hours until Wilson was with him again. Never before had House yearned more for Wilson's company than in the last few days.

Now House did not only want to be with him, but let him know that he did. Why had he always pretended to push Wilson away, to be annoyed of his caring attitude?

Because he wasn't. He never had been. It was like a game he played to keep his reputation. And he almost convinced himself of that.

Now House knew he should have told Wilson. He understood that the only chance to be close to the one he cared about, was to tell him. What good was it now to pretend that he was miserable and cold as ice. Wilson knew very well, that he wasn't. Of course patients did not mean anything to him, but a puzzle to solve, but Wilson was different. House worked with a passion and he loved with a passion. Until now he had only shown the first of these passions.

-----

**T**wo bells. Six more to go until Wilson's hour.

House looked around his apartment and tried to see it with Wilson's eyes. What did he see? His home? Or the home of a friend? _A very untidy home of a friend_, House thought and began to put some books back onto the shelves.

He felt stupid for cleaning up his apartment for Wilson. Still he washed the dishes that piled in the sink for more than a week. After Wilson's accident he hadn't had the energy to do anything. Days had passed in slowmotion, put they had felt blurry and unreal.

When he came back to his livingroom with a beer and sandwich in his hands, he eyed the unfamiliar cleanness. And just to feel a bit more like himself, he put the sandwich and beer down on the table, watching contentedly as a few crumbs sprinkled on the smooth surface.

-----

**T**he eight bells finally sounded through the room and House sat up on the couch.

"Hi." He heard Wilson's voice.

House turned around to where Wilson had appeared next to the tv.

"Hey." It felt good to see him again – as always.

"The ugly tie again," House teased and Wilson rolled his eyes

"Did you call me back to talk about my ties?"

House wordlessly fumbled with his cane to get up and went to the bedroom. He returned with a blue tie that was a very dark blue at the top and slowly changed color to a lighter blue at the bottom.

"This one's better," he said and held the tie up to Wilson's chin. "No stripes."

"That's mine!" Wilson exclaimed. "What is my tie doing in your bedroom?"

"Oh, that." House looked at it, seemingly surprised to see it in his own hands.

"Had to sneak it from you while you were still living here." He cast a longing look at the couch, wishing back the old days when Wilson shared his apartment.

"I've been looking for that one on that morning …" Wilson pointed vaguely behind him, indicating the day he died in the car accident.

"Really?" House felt a wave of guilt rush over him.

"No." Wilson's face broke into a familiar old grin.

House's look changed from guilty to reproachful.

"But I could have been," Wilson quickly went on. "And then I would be wearing that one now. Your …," his voice dropped "… your favorite."

House stayed silent for a few seconds, looking at the tie he held in his hands.

"No, you wouldn't," he finally stated. "You always picked the ugliest of ties."

House grinned as Wilson put his hands on his hips in indignation.

-----

"**H**ow was work?" Wilson asked, trying to keep his tone casual. "It was your first day after …

Well, the first day, wasn't it?"

"Okay," House pointed to the spot beside him on the sofa, indicating Wilson to sit down. "Cuddy is worried about me. And she's crying over you."

"I'm sorry." Wilson had always tried to avoid hurting other people. This time he couldn't help it.

"Cuddy thinks I lost my mind, because I'm not crying all the time like she does." House deliberately left out the scene in front of Wilson's empty office, where he had stopped and had turned around, hobbling back to his own office as fast as he could, blinded by tears and feeling lonely like never before in his life. He was still glad that no one had seen him, although he suspected Cameron had been further down the corridor.

"She will get over it. She's stronger than she seems." Wilson cast a worried look at House.

"I'm okay." House took the beer from the table, but did not drink. He turned the bottle in his hands, glad that his fingers had something to do.

"Wanna play poker?" he suddenly asked.

Wilson lifted his eyebrows.

"How am I to hold the cards?" He lifted his hands up to his eyes and glared at House through them.

"I can hold them for you," House grinned. "I always know what's on your hand anyway."

"Yes, most times you did." Wilson's voices sounded wistfully and House winced at the past tense.

"Let's just watch a movie… I know you cannot stay for the whole movie," he added quickly before Wilson could object. "We'll finish it tomorrow."

There was this glimpse of an irrational hope that Wilson would just forget to leave at 1am that made House jump up.

"Just pick a movie. I don't care. And I'll get the beer." He was half way to the kitchen when he noticed that Wilson did not move. "What's wrong? I know you won't drink."

"House, I can't pick a movie. I mean, I could point to one, but I cannot put it into the dvd-player." Wilson looked at his hands a little helplessly.

"You can't play poker. You can't put in a dvd…, " House growled.

"I can't wash the dishes. I can't clean your apartment and I can't cook, either." Wilson did not seem to be very sorry to hand off those tasks.

"So, what can you do?"

"Listen… Talk, " Wilson offered.

"You used to be more fun," House complained.

"I used to be alive."

House turned around wordlessly and hobbled into the kitchen. Out of Wilson's sight, he swallowed a couple of pills and washed them down with a large gulp of beer.

-----

**H**ouse had picked a movie and put it into the player. He had not asked Wilson, but had just taken the first disc he could reach.

They both sat in silence and House had to glance at Wilson every now and then to make sure he was still there. Motionless and silent, Wilson now looked more like a ghost than he had before.

"I'm sorry," House said quietly and noticed that it was the second time in two days that he used these words. Nothing that had ever happened before.

Wilson nodded. But House wasn't looking at him.

"Say something," he whispered, afraid that Wilson had left already.

"I'm here. I nodded."

"You got to speak or it feels like you're gone."

"I'm here," Wilson said again.

"You're not warm and I can't smell your aftershave." House felt close to panicking.

"Hold out your hand," Wilson demanded.

House sighed and slowly lifted one of his hands that he had tugged between his thighs. He watched Wilson lifting his hand, too and felt the light touch of his palm on his. He wanted to squirm, take his hand away and tell Wilson how silly this was, but he kept still, holding his hand up in the air.

"Now close your eyes and remember what it felt like. You have to _remember_ the warmth."

"You never touched my hand like this."

Wilson ignored him. "Can you feel it?"

House shivered, but slowly felt the warmth of Wilson's hand against his own. He nodded.

"Good." Wilson said.

House opened his eyes again.

"And remember how to feel it, because I won't do this again. This is just silly!" Wilson took his hand down and had to grin at House's slightly offended looks.

"You really do show your softer side," mocked Wilson. "I would have died earlier, if I'd known this."

"That's not funny," growled House and decided that this was _not_ the right time to repeat his confession from the first evening.

"I've got to go." Wilson's smile faded as the first of two bells rang.

"I love you, Jimmy." House whispered into the second bell and again he did not know if Wilson had heard him.

-----

_Why didn't he have the courage to say it to his face?_  
House wondered, why he could not bring himself to say it, even now that Wilson was dead. Wasn't it cool enough? Not manly enough? His dad had never said 'I love you'. But House did not want to be like his dad.

Over the years House had made many remarks about his feelings towards Wilson. Of course no one ever took them seriously, because they were well disguised as some of his weird comments, but still House had not meant them any less. He had hoped Wilson would understand and make the next step. At the same time he knew he would have turned Wilson down if he had.

Now House knew he had to tell him. He needed to know Wilson's answer, needed to hear it from him, because that was one of the things about Wilson he had never been able to figure out.

_And what did he have to lose if he told him?_ If Wilson turned him down, no one else would know. Maybe Wilson would stop his nightly visits, but at least then everything was said and House might be able to let go.

He would tell him next time.

The bell clock weakly rang three times as sleep dragged House to a carefree dreamland.

* * *

Please review! 


	4. Chapter 4

**Eight Bells: Chapter Four**

_A/N: I'll get to the point I first had in my head and that made me write this fic. Not in this chapter, but definitely in the next one ... or the one after. Promise :)_

* * *

**C**uddy had not objected as House limped into her office after lunch to ask if he could take the rest of the day off to go to the cemetery. Her eyes were still red and swollen from the crying.

"Are you sure you're alright?" she had asked with a worried look. "Your leg seems to hurt more. You can hardly walk."

"I'm fine. I slept on the couch." House wanted to get out of there before she could ask more questions.

"Wilson's couch?" Cuddy's look was getting even more concerned if possible.

"No, last time I checked, it was _mine_."

Cuddy bit her lip, trying to imagine House clinging to the couch were Wilson had slept for a few weeks.

"I'm so sorry. I know how much you must miss him," she started again.

"Nice," House cut her short. "But I'm fine. I just need to …" … _talk to him_… He shut his mouth. He couldn't tell Cuddy. He did not want to share Wilson. This was the only good thing about Wilson being a ghost, he belonged to House alone.

Cuddy nodded and House left.

_She probably thought he would kneel at Wilson's grave, crying and praying in secret,_ House mused. He wouldn't, although right now he felt very much like it. Not like praying, but like crying.

-----

**H**ouse had spent most part of the morning standing on his balcony, avoiding to look at the closed door of Wilson's empty office. Still he had the feeling that his friend would come out any moment.

Later he had gone over and sat at Wilson's desk that had now been cleared of all patients' files. All of his patients had been assigned to other doctors. One of the charts had ended up on House's desk. Cameron had reluctantly laid it in his hands and explained that a young cancer patient had developed an unexplainable series of light heart attacks. He had just nodded, not able to answer, after he read the name of the first assigned doctor: James Wilson. His handwriting covered most of the medical records.

**W**ilson was still present in many places at the hospital and House stumbled across them every now and then: the name on his office door, his patients' charts, his empty parking space that still carried his name, his now silent beeper that House carried with him all day.

The time without Wilson was dreadful and midnight seemed years away.

------

**T**he gravel crunched under the wheels when House turned into the dirt road to the cemetery. Next to the small parking, the caretaker cut his roses and looked up. It did not happen often that one of the 'tough guys' came to the cemetery and House sure looked like one. The caretaker watched him dust off his baggy and faded jeans and leather jacket as House climbed off the orange painted Repsol limited edition Honda. House did not take off his sunglasses.

**T**here were only a few people standing at the graves or kneeling, planting fresh flowers while the afternoon sun warmed their backs.

House went straight to Wilson's grave. He was not interested in the other people today. He needed to talk to Wilson or better, invite him.

A robin was hopping between the flowers on the grave. It was chasing a worm and didn't notice House as he slowly approached. He watched the little bird for a while and only went closer after the robin flew away with a fat worm hanging from its beak.

"Yea, catch'em and eat'em all before they eat Wilson," House snarled and felt sick at once, thinking about the worms penetrating Wilson's skin, eating their way through his organs. He swallowed hard and tried to get rid of the images in his head.

There was a coffin around him, Wilson would be safe for a while. The pesky worms would not eat him now!

Reassured that Wilson would be safe and sound in his creepy, silken bed, House sat down at the grave like he had done the day before.

-----

**T**he sun set behind the trees and left House in the chilly evening air. The colored leaves danced on the trees unaware of the fact that their time had almost come to leave their twigs and branches. And those dead ones that had already fallen, raced across the paths between the stones whenever a gust of wind came their way.

Mechanically House let the soil run through his fingers. It was time to go home, time to wait for Wilson. He picked up a worm and disgustedly threw it away as far as he could. It fell quietly on the grass and wriggled around until a magpie spotted the little creature and swallowed it.

The damp cold had stiffened House's leg. He swallowed a pill and waited a few seconds before he leaned on the tombstone again to help himself up.

"I see you tonight, Wilson," he whispered. "I'll have to tell you something important."

-------

**H**ouse was ready for Wilson to show up. The half-emptied whiskey bottle stood on the piano, close to House, who was twiddling a tune without knowing what it was. He had needed the whiskey to have the courage to tell Wilson. House felt stupid. Telling Wilson that he loved him, loved him for so many years was sloppy, mushy, over-emotional. It was simply _not_ House. But it had to be said to keep him sane.

Nervously House watched the clock as midnight drew nearer. The seven bells had sounded weak, as if the clock needed all its strength to strike. House had not wound up the bell clockwork. The eight bells sounded six times a day and only one of those times was midnight. House cringed at _every_ eight bells he heard the clock strike and was glad that the clockwork almost lost its strength to ring.

**A** click announced midnight. The wheel inside the clock turned and the clapper hit the bell and fell back. Once more it flipped and hit the bell with a 'ping', then the wheel stopped.

House did not listen. He looked around to see Wilson, scanned the room for his translucent friend. Wilson was not there.

"Wilson?" House asked into the silence.

The clock ticked in its constant rhythm, a car drove by in the street and the window rattled as the wind hit the house. Wilson did not answer.

"Wilson!" House called and got up to search the apartment. He had to be somewhere, House had been to his grave, asking him to come.

"Wilson!" _What had happened that kept Wilson away from him?_

Wilson had said he could return when House asked him, called him. _And he had said that he does not have to return_, a little voice teased. House tried to think what he could have said or done to drive away Wilson. Was it the remark about the ties?

He now hobbled frantically through the rooms, checking each one over and over again.

"I'm sorry, Wilson!" House shouted. He did not know what for, but by now he was sure he had said something that had hurt Wilson.

"I'm really sorry!" he shouted again. And he meant it. House was sorry for everything he had ever said or done to Wilson that had hurt him. Of course Wilson had more or less forgiven him in the past, but if he had not hurt him so many times, Wilson might have let House get away with the last thing he had said. Whatever it was.

**A**fter twenty minutes House eventually realized that Wilson would not come. Out of breath he sank onto the couch, his throat was sore from yelling Wilson's name and his apologies in turns. Whatever kept Wilson away from him, he could make up for it. House just needed a chance to talk to him.

He buried his face in his hands. Was this the proof that he was so damn miserable that even Wilson's ghost couldn't bear to be with him for one single hour?

House slowly got up again and reached for the whiskey bottle. He took a large gulp right out of the bottle and popped some pills. He wanted to drown in whiskey and Vicodin, because tonight he felt more miserable than he could sustain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Eight Bells: Chapter Five**

_**A/N:** This is a rather long chapter. I hope you have fun reading it. It's my birthday today so you should be nice to me. And I hope for some reviews as birthday presents ;)  
Thanks to medicgirl for her help! And I'm sorry, that I've been rushing you with this chapter.  
_

* * *

"**I**'m not sure he fully realizes that Wils-," Cameron's voice broke off as House opened the door to the conference room. His eys were bloodshot, his hair and clothes messy. He did not say good morning, but barely nodded and made his way to his office where he closed the blinds and sat down at his desk.

"Maybe he _does_ realize, that Wilson is gone," Chase said as his eyes followed his boss.

"It's about time then that he let his feelings out," Cameron answered and got up. "I'll talk to him."

"Why do you think he will 'fess up' his feelings to you? Because he _loves_ you?" Foreman asked, but did not make any attempt to stop her, when Cameron opened the door to House's office with one last look at her two fellow doctors.

------

**V**ery much to Cameron's surprise, House did not throw one of the balls or sat in his recliner in the corner. Instead he was hunched over a patient's chart, scanning test results.

"House?," she asked carefully.

He finished reading the paper and then looked up to her.

"Cameron?" he asked in mocking reply to her cautious approach.

"I just wanted to let you know that I'll be there … I mean if you want to talk … or something." Her voice broke of as she looked into Houses indifferent face.

"I think we already cleared up that I don't wanna do 'something' with you." House looked Cameron straight into the eyes and she blushed.

"No, I – I," she stammered. "I meant if you want to talk about … Wilson," Cameron almost whispered the name.

"Hm," House grunted and turned his attention back to the test results he was studying. He wished Cameron would just leave him alone.

"It's okay to cry," Cameron started another attempt to get House talking.

"I just haven't slept much," House explained his scruffy state that Cameron was obviously referring to.

Cameron opened her mouth, but before she could get a word out House waved his hand towards the door.

"Go help Cuddy in the clinic," he ordered.

Cameron nodded, but stayed.

"We can help you with that patient," she pointed to the chart in front of House. She had noticed that it was the cancer girl with the heart attacks that had been Wilson's patient.

House shook his head slightly and looked at the open office door. Cameron gave up for now. He was not willing to talk, but she would come back another time.

**A**fter Cameron had closed his door again, House laid his face in his hands for a few seconds. Talking to other people wore him out easily these days. He couldn't stand their concerned looks, their worried voiced and the useless advises. All of that just made the pain worse. House longed for Wilson who would understand that he did not need the concern, but distraction.

He imagined Wilson coming into his office, pointing at House and saying "Do you remember when I won the poker tournament? I tricked them all!" Wilson would grin, remembering his triumph. "Even _you_ didn't think I could do it!" Then he would stretch out his arm and House's fist would meet Wilson's half way. A sign of their friendship and understanding.

House smiled. _Wilson would know what to say and do._

He quickly returned to the patient's test results again. Wilson was not here to cheer him up. They did not reminisce about their happy memories, because _House_ had messed up.

It was not easy to make up for something, if you don't know what you did wrong, but House tried, like a rejected puppy, showing all his tricks to get the treat. He had been in the clinic this morning, treating two kids with runny noses and a woman with menstrual pain and hemorrhoids – he still winced inwardly when thinking of that patient. After that he had actually _talked_ to a former patient in a checkup. Now there was Wilson's patient that needed to be treated and House felt that he had to figure out what was wrong with her on his own.

-----

**I**t was way past five, when House limped out of his office. The ducklings had gone home. He had heard the scratching of the chairs and the murmur of voices when they had prepared to leave.

House had written down a number of differential diagnoses on a piece of paper. He had been through the test results and Wilson's notes about a hundered times when he eventually had to admit to himself that he needed to talk to the patient to get further information.

The corridors were still full of people and House tried to avoid their stares. He could feel their eyes on him. Most of them have been aware of that strange friendship of the gruff Gregory House and boy wonder oncologist James Wilson and everyone was curious how the misanthropic diagnostician delt with the death of his friend.

House knew that whatever he did, he couldn't come off well. Either they thought he couldn't get on with his life without Wilson or they accused him of being cold and heartless.

He didn't care anyway. House chose to ignore them and hobbled passed them to the patient's room.

**H**e glanced through the glass wall of the icu room, seeing that young woman sitting on her bed, cables coming from the pads on her chest to monitor her heart functions. The colorful flowers on her nightstand reminded House painfully of the flowers on Wilson's grave.

He lifted his hand to the door handle, but couldn't make himself to go in. She would talk about Wilson for sure, even though – or because - she must know by now that he had the accident.

House looked pale and felt like cuddling up in some corner, but how was he suppose to make up for what he had done if he did not talk to that patient? He slowly opened the door.

"Hi," House said, avoiding her eyes.

"Hello," her voice sounded a little hoarse as if she had had a tube up her throat for a few days. But House knew the charts by heart, knew everything anyone had written down about her, and she had not needed a tube at any time.

"I'm your assigned doctor now," House said and the thought of the reason why _he_ was in charge now and not Wilson chocked him.

She nodded. "I heard about Dr. Wilson."

House wanted to swallow the pain that crept up his throat, but he couldn't swallow at all, instead he stared at his cane.

"I liked him a lot," the girl went on, oblivious to House's struggle to hold back the tears.

"He was a gentle and good man. When I'm dead, I'll surely meet him in heaven." Her sad eyes looked huge in her bald head.

Without another look at the patient and without a word House turned around. He just needed to get out of the room and leave that girl behind as far and fast as he could.

-----

**H**ouse had only grabbed his leather jacket and keys from his office and had left the hospital. He had tried best he could to make everything right today. Even if Wilson was angry at him, he could not expect House to talk about the death of his best friend with a patient.

But still doubt was lurking in his mind.

**O**n his way home, he stopped at the cemetery. A long while House just stood silently at the grave, staring at the flowers that looked colorless in the fast falling darkness.

He had never been afraid of graveyards, he had never spent time thinking about them, either. The knowing that Wilson was so near felt comforting as long as he could picture him asleep in the coffin. As soon as his medically trained brain replaced that peaceful image with the picture of an eight day old corpse, House felt sick. He gagged.

"Wanna come over for a movie tonight?" he whispered, trying to think of Wilson sitting on his couch rather than being buried beneath him.

House waited a few seconds for an answer, when it didn't come, he turned around and left.

**A**t home he spent the remaining hours until midnight staring at the clock. He felt stupid about it and wanted to distract himself to make the hours pass more quickly, but he was afraid that he might miss midnight. When the clock helplessly clicked at eleven o'clock, he took the small key and wound up the bell clockwork. Better try everything he could to make Wilson return. Hadn't he complained about House not winding up the clock?

**T**he seven bells made House jump. He had not heard the clock strike in two days and and the sound suddenly cut through the silence in his apartment.

House reached out and took the heavy brass clock in his hands. He stared at the clock-face, trying to make the hands move faster by sheer will.

When midnight finally arrived and the clock started to ring, he silently counted along … five … six … seven …

**E**ight bells. He looked around the room, trying to spot Wilson as soon as he faded in. For a few seconds he feared Wilson would leave him alone again. Then he saw him at the kitchen door. Seeing Wilson standing there as though nothing had happened the night before, washed away the guilt and anger came creeping up. House didn't give him any time to say hello.

"Where have you been?" House's angry voice was mixed with the relief that Wilson was with him again.

"You didn't called me."

"I've been to the cemetery and asked you to come."

"Oh, the cemetery. Sorry, I didn't hear you. I'm not around there anymore," Wilson said apologetically. "It's a sad place when your body starts to rot."

House wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Don't say that." He glared at Wilson, but at the same time felt the weight lifting from his chest. _It had not really been his fault._

"How am I supposed to call you then?"

"Eight bells," Wilson pointed to the clock in House's hands. "I'll always hear'em."

-----

"**D**on't you ever, _ever_ do that again!" House was stirred up, nervous. The fact that Wilson had not turned up the night before still frightened him.

"You have to learn to live your life without me, House." Wilson's brown eyes seemed to be the only thing about him that was not transparent, but shining with their warm, soulful light.

"Why? You can come back every night. I'll keep the clock wound up. I'll put a battery clockwork in."

Wilson smiled. "I don't think batteries will work. You'll have to wind up the clock with your own hands."

"Fine."

"I _have_ to leave for good one day," Wilson said carefully, knowing that House was not willing to let him go.

"I said, I'll wind up the damn clock." House slammed his cane against the door. Anger was the only way he knew to express fright. He did not want to hear Wilson's words, did not want to take in what they meant and the best way to avoid that, was anger. Yelling loud enough to drown Wilson's words.

"How was I suppose to know that you don't like your damn rotting body and kept away from it? I don't like _my_ damn rotting body, either, but I'll keep it anyway!"

Wilson looked at him with no surprise at all. He was used to House's outbursts of rage.

----

"**I** wish I had been in that car with you," House added after a long silence.

He stood with his head down, the cane in his hand, holding it in a firm grip that turned his knuckles white. House fought the urge to touch Wilson. He wished he could just hold him tight, making sure he was there with him and would never leave him. This urge he had fought so many times before and now it was too late. Wilson already had left him. Even if he wanted to, there was no way he could go over to him and hold him.

"I wish none of us had been in that car." Wilson suddenly stood right behind him. "I didn't _want_ to go, House."

Like a soft breeze Wilson's hand touched House's shoulder and made him look up, guilt and sorrow in his blue eyes, that now tried to hold the brown ones like he wanted to hold Wilson's body.

"I'll find a way," House said softly.

"For what?"

"To make you stay," his brain was working full speed already. "There has to be a way …" _we could be together_, was what House wanted to say, but he couldn't get the words out.

"There is none, House." Wilson shook his head. "Midnight to one o'clock is all we have."

But House was already limping up and down in his living room, analyzing the situation, trying to analyze Wilson's physical - or rather non-physical - state.

"What is it that makes you come here?" he asked, his mind on the puzzle he had to solve.

"You."

"I'm there 24/7, so that's not it." House shook his head.

"It _is_ you," Wilson repeated wearily.

"You're not helping me. _Think_!"

"House, give it up. I don't know what it is, but there is something special about this hour. No matter what I want or what I do, I'll fade from here at 1am."

"What makes you fade?" There was no sign of giving up from House. As usual he was at his best when everyone else had come to a dead end. Telling him that something didn't work just made him try harder to proof them wrong.

"The hour." Wilson sat down on the sofa. There was no way stopping House now and the only thing to do was to wait until he came to a conclusion.

House objected. "Hours don't make people fade,".

"Not people, but ghosts."

House heaved a sigh. He tried hard to forget about Wilson's ghostal status. But whenever Wilson remided him of his death, House felt that awful lump creep back up to his throat. He swallowed hard and returned to his thinking. Wilson must not go.

-----

"**W**hat are you made of anyway?" House poked Wilson's arm and watched his finger sink in. He drew it back right away. It scared him.

"Thoughts, I think." Rubbing his neck with one hand, Wilson turned around to House. He could well understand that this situation intrigued him, but he still wished, House would accept things as they were.

House stared at Wilson. It wasn't his answer, but his old habit of massaging his neck. Wilson was dead and still kept his habits. House smiled faintly. He loved these little gestures and sometimes even had provoked an argument just to see Wilson pinch the back of his nose or see that annoyed look in his eyes.

"What?" Wilson asked, slightly confused about House's stare and smile.

"Listen," he went on when House did not answer. "Why don't you just leave that alone and sit down here. I have to leave in a bit and would like to … just sit here next to you."

House's smile faded, but he kept on staring – even more than before.

"You make it sound like we're some kind of old couple," he finally grunted. "What's next? The big romantic weekend in the Poconos?" He surrounded the end of the sofa and sat down. "You never answered that question by the way."

"You hadn't been serious about that." Wilson eyed House. "You hadn't, had you?"

"Hm."

"House!" Wilson tried to playfully punch House's arm, but his hand went right through him.

"Don't!" House caught the movement only with the corner of his eye, but the sight of Wilson's hand disappearing in his arm freaked him out. He jumped up and for the first time in years he forgot to shift his weight to his left leg. Struggling for a hold, he instinctively grapped Wilson's arm and toppled over the table when his hand caught only air. Within the clatter of House and the table crashing to the floor, the clock stroke two bells.

House found himself lying on the floor, his hip and leg aching from the fall. He turned his eyes to the empty spot on the sofa. Tears were swimming in his eyes now, he blinked them away, but he couldn't suppress a sob as another feeling was added to his emotional one-hour rollercoaster ride.


	6. Chapter 6

**Eight Bells: Chapter Six**

_**A/N:**__ Finally! Chapter six is ready. Actually most of it had been ready for about four months, but there were smaller bits missing. Anyway, it's finally here. I hope you all still remember what had been going on in the last five chaps ;)_

_Hopefully the next chapters will be written much faster. There are still plenty of ideas in my head that are waiting to be put into this fic. I hope you'll keep on reading._

_Reviews are very much appreciated!_

_**Disclaimer:**__ I unfortunately still do not own House or any of the other characters._

* * *

"**W**here are you going?" Cuddy followed House with short, quick steps. As soon as she caught up, she slowed down.

"Clinic," House answered and hobbled on along the corridor.

Cuddy's eyes widened. She could swear that man became weirder by the minute.

"What are you gonna do in the clinic?" she asked.

"Patient." He said and walked on.

"Will you stop for a second to talk to me or do I have to order you into my office?" With a sigh Cuddy stopped, hoping House would turn around to her.

"Your office. When?"

"Now."

"Can't." House said without turning around. "Patient. Clinic." He pointed to the elevator.

"What ever happened to complete sentences?" she complained, hoping to get him talking, but he just shrugged his shoulders.

Cuddy shook her head and let him go, but she watched him closely as he limped into the elevator. His leg seemed to hurt a lot for he could hardly walk at all.

----

**H**ouse did not have a patient waiting and he did not go to the clinic, instead he left the hospital and drove to the local library.

The library was all quiet when House walked through rows of books. High shelves blocked the light and although it was a sunny day, the back part of the room was only dimly lit. In the section he had been looking for, House had to squint at the book titles to read them. Most of them made him cringe and the rational part of his brain urged him to leave the supernatural section, but he stayed.

The first few books House saw were about UFO landings and alien abductions. He quickly skipped to the next shelf. _An investigator's guide to magical beings_ by John Greer, he read silently and shook his head. As far as House knew, Wilson wasn't magical. He wasn't even able to play poker!  
_The M-Files: The reports of Minnesota's unexplained phenomena_ by Jay Rath. No, Wilson was definitely not showing up in Minnesota, but in House's apartment in New Jersey.

Most books, House noticed, dealt with crimes and murder combined with the supernatural and for a few seconds he wondered if Wilson had returned to kill him or drive him insane.

"Can I help you?" A young woman suddenly stood behind House. Her long brown hair fell on her shoulders and she reminded House of Cameron so much that he involuntarily took a step backwards.

"No," House avoided her eyes. He glanced at the books, then looked down at his hand that lay on the handle of his cane. He felt more than uncomfortable in the supernatural section and wanted to get out of here.

"Ghosts," he said in a low voice.

"Oh, you'll find specialized books on that topic over there," the woman said softly and pointed to a shelf on the right before she turned around and left House standing in the dimly lit aisle.

Slightly embarrassed House cleared his throat and took a few steps to the shelf she had pointed to.  
_The Why-Files: Are there really ghosts? – Questions about angels and psychic friends by James Watkins._ This was it! House skimmed over the books for a while and left half an hour later with a whole pile of them.

-------------

"**H**ouse, we need to talk," Cuddy opened the door to his office to find her head of diagnostics buried in a pile of books. "What the -?"

"Get out!" House barked at once and slammed the book shut that he was reading.

"Out!" he bellowed again as Cuddy didn't move.

She staggered a few steps backwards in surprise before she caught herself.

"House, stop yelling. What's going on here?" Her eyes narrowed in anger and suspicion. "I've been looking for you in the clinic and you hadn't been there all day."

"Out," House spoke the word this time. But got up and took Cuddy by her arm and led her out of his office.

"What are you doing in there?"

"Reading." House suddenly felt exhausted. He noticed his hand was trembling slightly from the shock of being almost caught with a bunch of books on ghosts.

"And I'm not allowed in your office because you're reading?" Cuddy asked. "Are you preparing some kind of voodoo magic or something."

"Yea, just need some of your hair and I'm done." House pulled out a bit of her hair and cast it a satisfied look. "Voilà."

Cuddy heaved a sigh, put her hands on her hips and eyed House crossly. He cringed inwardly at her Wilson-ish pose.

"Your leg hurts more than usual," she stated and waited for his respons. He didn't answer.

"And I know it's because you're missing Wilson."

"It's not because I miss Wilson." House tried his best derogative look, but failed miserably. "I slept on the couch."

Cuddy twisted her mouth and looked at House. Everything in her face seemed to say "_See I told you you miss Wilson_".

"I guess I'm getting to old for sleeping on the couch, hm," House pondered.

"Talk to the psychiatrist." Cuddy said and it was an order, not a suggestion.

"I'm fine."

"You're in pain," she insisted.

"Just the usual muscle pain." House dissented and went back into his office. His door closed with a definite bang.

He sat down at his desk again and he was happy to have Cuddy believe that his leg got worse because he missed Wilson. His fear was her finding out about the bruises and cuts he got when he crashed on the table when Wilson's ghost tried to punch him.

----------------

**L**ater that evening, House was pacing up and down his living room, while waiting for the bell clock to ring. Every now and then he popped a pill to ease the pain. The skin on his right side had become a dark violet and blue color and his elbow was throbbing almost as much as his thigh._He looked like he had been in a car crash_, House thought, _but with a better outcome than Wilson…_

He cast a look at his small couch table that he had repaired half-heartedly. A pile of books served as a table-leg now and the top had been patched with nails and scotch tape.  
On his way home he had thought about buying a new table, but he decided to keep this one as a reminder not to grab Wilson's arm or hand to steady himself. It was a reminder of Wilson's existence as a ghost, too. And that was the downside of it. But House's dislike of changes had finally tipped the scale for keeping the table. He liked it still. Now it was as damaged as he was.

The eight bells sounded through the silence of the room and House's head jerked up. He looked around to find Wilson and saw him sitting on his sofa almost right away.

Even before he was completely visible, Wilson jumped up and walked over to House. His face showed concern and his hand automatically went up to touch House's arm. About an inch away from House's sleeve, Wilson stopped his hand and let it fall again.

"Are you okay?" he asked, scanning House's body with a worried look.

House nodded and kept his eyes on Wilson's hand that had almost touched him. He wished Wilson had not stopped. He thought that the simple touch of Wilson's fingers could have taken the pain away.  
But House did not allow himself to get distracted very long. As fast as his aching body let him, he hobbled over to the table and grabbed a book from the top of the pile.

"You're not a ghost," House stated and fiercely tapped his finger onto the cover.

Wilson's look changed from concerned to confused to annoyed.

_No one_, House thought, _could switch moods faster than Wilson_. A slight smile crossed his face and was gone again.

"I found a few books that could help us," House went on, opening the book and flipping through the pages.

"Books that help _you_," Wilson disagreed and his eyes narrowed. House still hadn't given up on his newly found conundrum.

"Here," House had found the passage he had marked earlier today. "Spirits are capable of continuing a full existence on the other side with their full mental and emotional facilities intact," he quoted.

Wilson looked doubtful. "You're calling this a full existence?" He turned around and took a few steps forward and walked right through the grand piano.

House let out an impatient grunt. "But you are mentally and emotionally intact."

Wilson's eyebrows went up. "Even after my death I decided to return to you. I doubt anyone would call that mentally intact …"

"Funny," House said dryly. He didn't have the time for a snide remark. He had to clear things up and figure out how he could make Wilson stay.

"I'm not a science project," Wilson protested angrily as if he had read House's mind, but House ignored him.

"You will not likely … spirit … ghost hunt," House mumbled as he skipped through the page, his fingers tracing the lines, the tip of his tongue showing between his lips as he concentrated on the text.

"There it is: Their appearance might be in the form of ectoplasm mist, as well as a full bodied apparition." House looked up. "Full body apparition. Obviously," he added as his eyes went up and down Wilson's body. He watched Wilson's face. It was boyish like it had always been. _Almost forty_, House thought, _and still looking so damn young_. Suddenly this struck him as very odd.

"Why are there no bruises?" he asked, taking a step forward. "You wear the same clothes, even the same damn tie, but there are no bruises! I remember your cheekbone had been broken in the accident."  
House frowned. And Wilson did, too.

"Might be the bruises are only visible as ectoplasm mist," Wilson snapped and turned away from House, touching his own cheekbone with his fingertips.

House knew Wilson did not share his fascination for puzzles and unsolved questions, but he was sure that in the end – when he found a way to make him stay – he would appreciate House's efforts. Besides that, House's need for solving this puzzle had to be satisfied. He couldn't let this go.

House returned to reading from the book."They are permitted to visit on occasion and even communicate when they have permission to do so."  
"This," House tapped the page again," will be this calling thing. The clock. I have to call you to give you permission to show up."

Wilson spun around. "_You_ give me permission to show up?" He angrily put his hands on his hips. "Permission? The hell you do! Not only can't you leave a puzzle alone for once, no-ho! You think you are the … the," he fumbled for words. "The master of ghosts!"

"Spirits," House corrected quietly, but lowered his eyes.

"Spirits! Fine!" Wilson slammed his fist on the piano, but the effect got lost when his hand sank in without making a noise. "Fuck! Full existence? Fucking no existence!" he went on yelling. "Giving me a fucking permission to talk to you? Oh, you wish! I don't have to fucking obey you, House!" Wilson now stood in front of House, pointing his finger to his chest. "I never had to obey you. _You_ are not my fucking boss._ I_ came to you, because _I_wanted to, because _I_ knew you wanted me to be with you and because _you_ are just too fucking stubborn to ask even once!"

Wilson stood huffingly only a few inches away from House, his half-transparent chest heaving, his face reddened in anger.  
"I'm_not_ your puzzle, House!" Wilson said crossly, but did not yell anymore.

House held the book with both hands. It was closed now and his eyes rested on Wilson's finger that still pushed against his chest.

"And now," Wilson said wearily as he lowered his finger, "you've got me to say 'fuck' about a hundred times in a minute."

"I'm sorry." House's voice was barely audible.

"Good." Wilson turned away and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm dead. I don't want to fight. Whatever this is, we got a chance to spend a little more time together. Call it fate or whatever you want. I don't care." His voice sounded exhausted as if the yelling had worn him out. He even looked a bit more transparent than before.

House didn't like to call it fate and he couldn't call it anything else as long as he hadn't figured out what was going on. But he kept his mouth shut. Wilson had made clear that he could leave anytime and that was the least House wanted him to do.

"Don't go." House heard his own voice, but couldn't remember saying it.

Wilson sighed. "I'm not going." He turned around to House again and for a second House thought that Wilson would hug him. But then he stopped and just looked at him.

"Could I," House asked carefully," read one more passage to you?"

Wilson shook his head in resignation, then nodded when he saw his friend's big blue eyes that were questioningly, pleadingly asking Wilson for permission_. Sometimes_, Wilson thought, _House was just a big curious kid_.  
"Go ahead," he finally said. "What is it?"

Slowly House opened the book again and searched for the page he had lost when Wilson had yelled at him.  
"Many believe that we have spirits assigned to watch over us," House read, his eyes quickly flicking up to Wilson's face to judge his reaction. ".. but you won't normally be detecting them unless they have a special purpose in making their presence known."

Wilson waited silently. He knew the question House was about to ask.

"Do you have a special purpose? A mission to finish?"

There it was, just as Wilson had suspected, but he didn't know what to answer.  
"Do_you_ think I'm here to finish something?" he returned the question instead.

House held his head down, but his eyes looked up to Wilson. A look that showed how insecure he really was right now.  
"Maybe," House said softly," it's not something you have to do. Maybe it's giving _me_ a chance to do something that I have failed to do?" He looked a Wilson.

"Something you failed to do?" Wilson eyed House closely. "Failed to find a way to make me stay?"

House shook his head slowly. "Failed to tell you that it matters," he mumbled and couldn't decide if he could bear looking at Wilson. "It's not only this friendship. _You_ matter."

He thought his own words sounded awkward and he wasn't sure how to handle this, but when he finally looked into Wilson's face he saw him smile.

"You do matter, too," Wilson answered. "I guess you mattered so much that I had to come back."

"I love you," House whispered and it felt surprisingly good to say it.

Wilson nodded. "I know."

The silence in the room was almost tangible. Just like the ghostal appearance of Wilson, it was clearly there, but not solid.

"Do you …," House began, but couldn't finish the question. He was too afraid of the answer. _What if it was 'no'? What if Wilson didn't feel the same way about this?_

"I do love you, too." Wilson stood close to House, but didn't touch him.

"Good," House said relieved and they stood quietly for a while. "How long?"

Wilson sighed. "Too long." And House left it at that.

------------

**T**hey sat in silence for the rest of Wilson's hour. Half in shock and half in awe from the things that just had been said. Wilson's hand lay on House's, holding it as tight as he could without his fingers sinking in. House had his eyes closed, completely overwhelmed by the situation.

Not used to this intimacy, House's fingers moved only reluctantly under Wilson's warm hand. He freed a finger to softly stroke along Wilson's thumb.

Tenderly Wilson caught House's finger again as if it was a sheep gone astray from the herd. He held House's hand under his own and finally entangled their fingers.

"House," Wilson said quietly as the first of two bells rang. "I don't want to go." With the second strike of the clock, House felt Wilson's touch getting lighter until his fingers only clutched air. Wilson was gone – again. And House missed him already when the clock started to tick in its slow monotonous rhythm again.


End file.
